Chapter 89 - The Hunt of the Wild Horse by Mayne Reid
The Trapper’s Counsel
“Now, Bill Garey, an you, young fellur, jest clap yur eyes on thet ’ere ’campmint, an see ef thur ain’t a road leadin inter the very heart o’ it, straight as the tail o’ a skeeart fox. ’Ee see it? eh?”
“Not under kiver?” replied Garey interrogatively.
“Unner kiver—ivery step o’ the way—the best o’ kiver.”
Garey and I once more scrutinised the whole circumference of the encampment, and the ground adjacent. We could perceive no cover by which the camp could be approached. Surely there was none.
What could Rube mean? Were there clouds in the sky? Had he perceived some portent of coming darkness? and had his words reference to this?
I raised my eyes, and swept the whole canopy with inquiring glances. Up to the zenith, around the horizon—east, west, north, and south—I looked for clouds, but looked in vain. A few light cirrhi floated high in the atmosphere; but these, even when crossing the moon’s disk, cast no perceptible shadow. On the contrary, they were tokens of settled weather; and moving slowly, almost fixed upon the face of the heavens, were evidence that no sudden change might be expected. When the trapper talked of entering the camp under cover, he could not have meant under cover of darkness. What then?
“Don’t see ony kiver, old hoss,” rejoined Garey, after a pause; “neyther bush nor weed.”
“Bush!” echoed Rube—“weed! who’s talkin ’bout weeds an bushes? Thur’s other ways o’ hidin’ yur karkidge ’sides stickin’ it in a bush or unner a weed. Yur a gettin’ durnation’d pumpkin-headed, Bill Garey. I gin to think yur in the same purdicamint as the young fellur hisself. Yu’ve been a humbuggin’ wi’ one o’ them ur Mexikin moochachers.”
“No, Rube, no.”
“Durn me, ef I don’t b’lieve you hev, boy. I heern ye tell one o’ ’em—”
“What?”
“Wagh! ye know well enuf. Didn’t ’ee tell one o’ ’em gurls at the rancherie that ye loved her as hard as a mule kud kick—sartintly ye did; them wur yur preezact words, Billee.”
“I was only jokin’, hoss.”
“Putty jokin’ thet ur ’ll be when I gits back to Bent’s Fort, and tell yur Coco squaw. He, he, he—ho, ho, hoo! Geehosophat! thur will be a rumpus bumpus!”
“Nonsense, Rube; thar’s nothin’ ov it.”
“Thur must ’a be: yur brain-pan’s out o’ order, Bill; ye hain’t hed a clur idee for days back. Bushes! an weeds too! Wagh! who sayed thur wur bushes? Whur’s yur eyes? d’yur see a bank?”
“A bank!” echoed Garey and I simultaneously.
“Ye-es,” drawled Rube—“a bank. I guess thur’s bank, right afore yur noses, ef both o’ yur ain’t as blind as the kittlins o’ a ’possum. Now, do ’ee see it?”
Neither of us made reply to the final interrogatory. For the first time, we began to comprehend Rube’s meaning; and our eyes as well as thoughts were suddenly directed upon the object indicated by his words—the bank of the stream—for to that he referred.
I have stated that the little river ran close to the Indian lines, and on one side formed the boundary of the camp. We could tell that the current was towards us; for the stream, on reaching the hill upon which we were, turned sharply off, and swept round its base. The Indian camp was on the left bank—though upon its right when viewed up-stream, as we were regarding it. Any one proceeding up the left bank must therefore necessarily pass within the lines, and through among the horses that were staked nearest to the water.
It need not be supposed that under our keen scrutiny the stream had hitherto escaped observation; I myself had long ago thought of it—as a means of covering my approach—and time after time had my eyes dwelt upon it, but without result: in its channel I could perceive no shelter from observation. Its banks were low, and without either rush or bush upon them. The green turf of the prairie stretched up to the very brink, and scarcely twelve inches below its level was the surface of the current water. This was especially the case along the front of the encampment, and for some distance above and below.
Any one endeavouring to enter the camp by stealing up the channel, must have gone completely under the water, for a swimmer could have been observed upon its surface; even if a man could have approached in this way, there was no hope that a horse could be taken with him; and without the horse, what prospect of ultimate escape?
It had seemed to me impossible. More than once had I taken into consideration, and as often rejected, the idea.
Not so Rube. It was the very scheme he had conceived, and he now proceeded to point out his practicability.
“Now, theen—ees see a bank, do ’ee?”
“’Tain’t much o’ a bank,” replied Garey, rather discouragingly.
“No: ’tain’t as high as Massoora bluffs, nor the kenyons o’ Snake River—thet nob’dy durnies; but ef ’tain’t as high as it mout be, it ur ivery minnit a gettin’ higherer, I reck’n.”
“Getting higher, you think?”
“Ye-es; or whet ur putty consid’able the same thing the t’other ur a gettin’ lower.”
“The water, you mean?”
“The water ur a fallin’—gwine down by inches at a jump; an in an hour from this, thur’ll be bluffs afront o’ the camp helf a yurd high—thet’s whet thur’ll be.”
“And you think I could get into the camp by creeping under them?”
“Sure o’t. Whet’s to hinner ye? it ur easy as fallin’ off o’ a log.”
“But the horse—how could I bring him near?”
“Jest the same way as yurself. I tell yur the bed o’ thet river ur deep enuf to hide the biggest hoss in creeashun. ’Tur now full, for the reezun thur’s been a fresh in consykwince o’ last night’s rain: ’ee needn’t mind thet—the hoss kin wade or swim eyther, an the bank ’ll kiver ’im from the eyes of the Injuns. You kin leave ’im in the river.”
“In the water?”
“In coorse—yur hoss’ll stan thur; an ef he don’t, you kin tie his nose to the bank. Don’t be skeeart, but ’ee kin take ’im as near as ’ee please; but don’t git too far to wind’ard, else them mustangs ’ll smell ’im, and then it ur all up both wi’ yurself an yur hoss. About two hundred yurds ull be yur likeliest distence. Ef ye git the gurl clur, ye kin easy run thet, I reck’n; put straight for the hoss; an whun yur mounted, gallip like hell! Put straight up higher for the timmer, whur we’ll be cached; an then, durn ’em! ef the red-skins don’t catch goss out o’ our rifles. Wagh! thet’s the way to do the thing—it ur.”
Certainly, this plan appeared practicable enough. The sinking of the water was a new element; it had escaped my observation, though Rube had noted it. It was this that had delayed him so long in giving his opinion; he had been watching it while leaning upon his rifle, though none of the rest of us had thought of such a thing. He remembered the heavy rain of the night before; he saw that it had caused a freshet in the little river; that its subsidence had begun; and, as in most prairie-streams, was progressing with rapidity. His keen eye had detected a fall of several inches during the half-hour we had been upon the ground. I could myself observe, now the thing was pointed out to me, that the banks were higher than before.
Certainly, the idea of approaching by the stream had assumed a more feasible aspect. If the channel should prove deep enough, I might get the horse sufficiently near: the rest would have to be left to stratagem and chance.
“Yur ridin’ in the Injun hoss,” said Rube, “ud niver do: it mout, on the wust pinch: an ef ee don’t git in the t’other way, ee kin still try it; but ye kud niver git acrosst through the cavayard ’ithout stampeedin’ ’em: ’em mustangs ud be sure to make sich a snortin’, and stompin’, an whigherin’, as ’ud bring the hul campmint about ye; an some o’ the sharp-eyed niggurs ’ud be sartint to find out yur hide wur white. T’other way es I’ve desized ur fur the safest—it ur.”
I was not long in making up my mind. Rube’s counsel decided me, and I resolved to act accordingly.